Melusine sighed with frustration. Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father. ” “Do you drink blood?” He stood up. Now I’d like the rest of your story. Ennison,” she exclaimed, “is that really you?” There was no sign of embarrassment in her manner. Here was an appalling fact: all her previous loneliness had been trifling beside that which now encompassed her and would for years to come.
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